Boomer’s Adventure Guide

In Search of the Perfect River

Expedition #1: The White River of Arkansas.

Foreword

The very first thing I want to say is I AM NOT A WRITER. I am a photographer who tells stories with pictures not words. This writing thing is new and scary to me. I know I am limited in my writing ability but feel strongly enough about the subject at hand to go ahead and make a fool of myself.

Also, I am going to share my adventures and mis-adventures as I learn the ways of river travel. I am writing this journal in hopes that the lessons I learn will help others who intend to take up float fishing. I have decided to bare my soul in these journal entries.

I am going to look like a real idiot as you read parts of the story. So be it. I do some really dumb things and hopefully you and I can both learn from my mistakes. I am in the process of creating information for those who want to explore the White and whatever other rivers and lakes I paddle in the future. During these efforts I will learn, a great deal about rivers, nature and probably more importantly myself.

Prior river knowledge is important. But it is hard to gain. For safety’s sake it is incumbent of each of us to learn all we can about every river prior to launching our boat. Some of this river knowledge others have known all their lives. But every river is different and I am learning them one at a time. That is what launched me into the exploration mode. I wanted to learn about the white River and didn’t find a lot of helpful info on the internet. Having grown up on the White I thought I knew a lot more than I did. That was the first lesson.

I will be chattering on about all sorts of subjects most of which have to do with experiences with products I am testing or just life’s experiences and observations. I am going to open a window into my soul as I tell you how I feel and what I am thinking during certain parts of the trip. I know I am going to look stupid in a lot of cases but it is sort of my first rodeo so please try to cut me a little slack.

I can guarantee one thing for certain. Some of the things I say will tick some folks off. Sorry, but it’s my personal journal and if you don’t like what you see then you should quit reading.

The reason I started the maps and journal was a lack of information about float fishing and the rivers. I decided last winter that I would like to put my old canoe to use and take up fishing. I’m sixty one now but have no intention of slowing down. I am pre-boomer age by one year. I figure a lot of people are thinking they would like a little adventure in their lives yet realize they are a little over the hill physically. Float fishing include all the neat things involved in an outdoor experience. Fun stuff like camping, scenery, photography, birding, nature viewing, cooking over a campfire or not, boating, canoeing, kayaking, fishing, fly fishing and as I have learned the thrill of the unexpected testing your mettle.

I intend to establish an organization that will enable people to find each other to share trips and information. There are enough books and maps when it comes to the white water scene. But now we are older and it is time for a gentler less strenuous type of outdoor activity. Float fishing requires cooperation among participants whether for shuttle service or partnering for safety’s sake. The companionship and friendships made along the way are a bonus.

The organization will be named Float Fishing America. After I get some maps done and have some journal information to share with people I will establish FFA.
We will use that group to promote the sport and I think you will find “Boomers” jumping on the idea.

To wind up the foreword I want to stress one thing. I know there will be a some old river hands read this blog or journal and kick the crap out of me. That’s o.k., I ‘m not writing this for you. I’m writing it for people like me who have been away from Mother Nature way too long or like my pal Chris Leavitt who grew up in a large city and never had the opportunity to learn the ways of the outdoors. It does not make us bad folks nor should we be targeted for ridicule but if that’s your thing go for it. It will be your problem not mine.

I am having a good time learning and growing with nature. I would challenge you to come join us and lend your expertise so we can learn from you. There are so many people who have never known the beauty nor bounty of the natural world. I am convinced the world would be a better place if we could fill it with outdoorsmen.

If you have your own boat and gear and feel the need for adventure you might want come join us. If so give me a call at 214-912-9106. I will be happy to share info on the when, what and where of the next trips. I am not your guide nor do I represent myself as having a clue about what I am doing. I’ll learn and so will you. I’m not going to be your nanny or cook your food. If you want to be a working member then we will be glad to invite you.

Boomer’s Mis-Adventure Journal- Solo

In search of the perfect float fishing river.

Expedition #2: Arkansas’s White River

Chapter One

Bull Shoals Dam to Norfork.

This time it was to be different. I was alone and had no one to wait on or worry about. I cleared my schedule and made a few calls to North Arkansas. I emailed several outfitters trying to locate camping facilities. I wasn’t making much progress. Finally, I found an outfitter who would actually talk to me.

Debbie Gamble of Cotter Trout Dock became that contact. She and her husband Ron were very helpful during the entire leg of the journey.

I drove nearly 500 miles from Dallas to Cotter on a Sunday in June. I arrived around 6 p.m. and was able to meet Debbie just as she was about to leave the dock. She was very gracious and suggested the motel near the bridge. I was more than a little concerned about leaving all that gear in an open canoe all night. The motel was in the town and on the highway next to the bridge. I had seen the motel and thought the parking lot was far too accessible for thieves. I was carrying my little outboard motor and all the fishing and camping gear in the canoe. I everything lashed down with rope but that would only secure it for travel and not from theft.

When I expressed my concerned for the gear she suggested I store my trailer behind the Cotter Trout Dock among their boats and other equipment. I jumped at that. She showed me a pavilion in back, where I could back the trailer into a protected area. I asked if she minded my sleeping there. She thought I was nuts but told me to go ahead if I wanted. Then she left to fix Ron a Father’s day meal.
The boat trailer backed right into a bay of the pavilion and left enough room for my aluminum cot. I had not used this cot since moving from Colorado some 15 years ago. As I started to put the cot together a major thunderstorm broke loose. The music from big shed’s tin roof sounded great. But now I had to figure out how to put the cot together. Isn’t camping fun? About the time you figure out how to put up the tent the next evil device is there for you to figure out. What really ticks me off is it takes me forever to figure out some engineers’ clever tricks. I think they do it on purpose.

Once together, the cot is really comfortable. I needed something for a pillow and tried to use my Cyclops bag cover. Nope, I wanted something softer. I pulled the hood of my new cheap sleep bag over it and that did the trick.

After setting up the cot I dug out my little Coleman one burner stove. I made a strong cup of Community Coffee’s chicory blend. Man, that java hit the spot. I had eaten a late lunch of great bar-b-q sandwiches from a roadside stand just north of Conway. I really didn’t need any supper.

With my little camp set up I drank my coffee and began to soak up the river scene. I was sitting no more than 10 feet from the water. I took notice of the volume of water in the river. The water was so high it was making a roaring sound as it strained against a boat dock across the river. It looked as if the current would take the dock away at any moment. I really had no way to judge but it looked as if the water was three to four feet above it’s normal line. The Cotter Trout Dock was situated in a protected cove so the current didn’t affect it. The Cotter Bridge was practically over head and quiet the edifice.

There is a spring fed swimming hole next to the Cotter Trout Dock. Apparently the water comes the subterranean route from one of the nearby creeks. The little rock lined pool was full of families with kids of all ages. The community had built a great rope swing by placing a leaning steel beam over the water and tying a rope to the end. The kids would grab the rope and swing out then let go just like we did from an old cotton wood tree years ago. I wondered if the kids had any idea who Geronimo was or if they still yelled the same thing we did. Of course the activity brought about screams and giggles from the girls and hollers of joy from the boys. They were having a wonderful time.

I was reminded an old article in National Geographic. I think the cover had a pretty Ozark teenaged gal in a swimming hole somewhere along this same river. I wonder if that was shot here at the spring?

The kids in the swimming hole and the girl in the article picture was reminiscent of the same good looks I had known as a kid in a town not so far down river. I had to reflect on the quality of the hillbilly gene pool. That same mixture of Irish, Scots, Germans and English was still pumping out the good-looking, fun loving kids.

Three or four of the boys were still swinging and yelling at 10 p.m. I was surprised at myself for not being irritated with them at bedtime. Instead, I took pleasure in their joy of life.

As I drank my coffee and then a bottle of water I watched it rain like cats and dogs. Two men were fishing on the other side of the little cove. They were standing near the Arkansas Fish and Game Commission’s newly improved boat ramp. I had forgotten to buy a fishing license before Debbie went home so I couldn’t fish the hour or so till dark. I regretted the fishing license goof up as I watched them cast.

As the rain fell even harder, the fellow grudgingly disappeared only to reappear in a big city trench-coat and his fishing hat. He then took up his rod and continued to cast like a man possessed.

When the rain quit another man joined him. I walked around to where the two were fishing. They were uncle and nephew and part of a yearly gathering from a geographically spread out family. Two of the older brothers had lived in Cotter as children while their father helped build Bull Shoals Dam. The man I spoke with had actually been born in Cotter.

The second fellow looked as if he might be nearly as old as his uncle. He wore the long braided ponytail of a biker. I asked neither man what he did for a living. It just seemed out of place and would have brought up thoughts we were there to forget. So I let that dog lay. We had a nice visit about fishing and the world. I don’t know what it means but I seemed to be closer politically to the biker than his uncle. Hmmm.

Dark came and the rain ended. The men were going back to their lives the next day and I was just getting my little expedition started. We parted and I went back to my shed and they to the little motel on the hill. Before they left I asked their opinion of the hotel parking lot security problem. They confirmed my concerns of vulnerability.

I haven’t mentioned the cats. For some reason there were 10 or more cats living in and around the fishing boats and equipment stacked in the Cotter Trout Dock’s work yard. I think it probably had to do with guides cleaning the days’ catch of tasty trout leftovers. I don’t think these cats were hanging around for generations because of some kind of homing instinct. The reason I bring up the cats is they seemed to lack a sandbox and I had to be careful of where I walked in the pavilion.

I tend to get up more at night than I did as a younger man. You “boomers” might identify with that deal. It is beneficial for one to notice where piles of cat poop are placed before testing your night vision. Being a dog rescuer teaches you a few things about critters and bare feet in the dark of night.

The other thing about the critters was their cat fights and hissing matches. During the night the ruckus would wake me up. There was a big vapor light on the opposite side of the enclosure from where I was sleeping. I could see the area pretty well. The cats would argue and then the loser apparently had the duty to do a twenty-five yard sprint. When they felt a safe distance had been achieved they would dive beneath a jon-boat or some other piece of equipment.

At first it freaked me out when the squalling and hissing would wake me up. I finally got used to it and let their occasional cacophony blend in with the roaring of the river. The dock across the river was really straining its’ cables.

I slept off and on until 4:30 or so. When I heard someone at the boat dock I checked my watch. It was Ron Gamble the dock owner, prepping his boats for the days’ charters.

There was a boat trailer in the big shed. It became the best seat in the house for coffee and watching the river at sunrise. Not long after daylight the water began to fall rapidly. The water line I had marked in just below my trailer perch had stayed at the same level all evening. By noon it would be down some three feet. It can come up even faster. This is no river to fool with and once again it caused me to doubt my river savvy.

Before daylight broke, I watched fish ripple the water and the first of the fishermen arrive at the boat ramp. It was drizzling a little with a fairly thick fog on the cold water. I was surprised at the women who came with their men and showed no concern about the rain or the coolness of the morning. They helped with placing the boat in the river, parked the pickups, and claimed their favorite fishing seat as the husband warmed the outboard. Then the twenty foot jon-boats would back out into the fog and turn upriver. The little motors would race and strain then slowly move upstream and disappear into the fog. The women and the men sitting like statues at ease in their chosen element. I envied them their lifestyles.

Our plan was to let Debbie and Ron get their guides and customers started fishing. Then Debbie would shuttle me to Bull Shoals Dam. I would motor back down to Cotter and check in with her for safety’s sake.

I made another cup of coffee and sauntered over to the office. Debbie introduced me to Ron and two of the guides. I was pleased to chat with the three of them about water conditions, shoals and other concerns. They assured me the shoals would be well under water but that the current would be very, very strong and I would need to contend with it constantly. Both guides and Ron were very generous with advice.

The for Arkansas Division of Tourism had given me a list of outfitters who supposedly provided camping and shuttle services for float fishermen. Most of that info was bad and some of the attitudes were equally as bad. One or two let me know they do not provide shuttle service to people who are not being guided by their staff nor did they know of any place a fellow could camp. I quit calling the list as soon as I found Debbie and Ron.

All the land along the river is private. The state access areas are off limits to camping. Other than the state park at the dam there is no public facility for camping. There were one or two private campgrounds near Cotter. I thought I would be spending my first night at one of them but they seemed to be geared to rv’s. When I emailed them one responded the other didn’t. One who responded warned me about pets and quoted something like $25 a night. For that fee I would be allowed to wander off into the back section of their property. There I would pitch a tent or in my case a jungle hammock. Obviously I wanted to be as near my canoe as possible. I certainly didn’t want to tote gear all over creation. Also, I thought $25 was a little steep. But the kicker was the anti dog attitude. I am a dog person. I rescue Boykin Spaniels and have the responsibility for four states as a regional coordinator. I don’t know why but they really stressed their displeasure with dogs coming to their campground. I decided I would sleep in my canoe before I would stay at a place that was so against dogs.

The folks at Cotter Trout Dock had an island camping place I could use and it was a days’ float from the Dam. I would take them up on the offer and shoot for Smith Island the first night. I suggested to Ron and Debbie that they should consider opening a little float fishermen camping spot behind the Cotter Dock. I hope they do.

The river runs over, around and through it…………and any place else it wants to go…remember that.

Chapter Two

Getting ready, to commence, to begin, to start, to crank this thing at Bull Shoals State Park. Stuff about stuff.

Debbie Gamble of the Cotter Trout Dock guided me to the State Park at Bull Shoals Dam. I put the little Mad River 16-foot in and pulled the car and trailer back up. I had forgotten to unplug the taillights before they entered the water. As soon as I noticed the mistake, I unplugged them. Apparently they were not under long enough to hurt anything. When the rig was hooked back up the lights worked fine.

I had a little disappointment with the trailer. One of the plastic fenders must have fallen off on the drive up. The second one did the same thing as we pulled the rig out of the water. I threw it away after seeing the bolt holes had expanded from the road vibrations. I was ticked when I realized driving through rain was going to throw water right up into the boat. That’s a tough bailing job when your boat is full of gear.

The trailer is made for canoes up to 17 feet. The manufacturer is Trailex of Canfield, Ohio. My cousin harassed me about buying a trailer when all I had to do was lift the boat to the top of my little Chevy HHR. I told him it was because in a few years I might not be strong enough. I wanted to be able to go fishing and not have to worry about lifting a canoe to the top of a car. This is about having a little fun and not about the macho deal. I don’t think Johnny has made the inevitable leap from the twilight zone to the twilight years. It’s not that we have to give up our adventures we just have to prepare for them a little more. I has spoken.

I have been very happy with the trailer because of its ease of handling. Even driving through the mountains in my little Chevy HHR I can‘t feel the rig behind me. I can man handle it with a loaded boat, motor on floor and all, walking it around at will. The boat, trailer and all store in a fairly tight space. I like the place for a lock on top of the hitch. I padlock it while on the river. It makes me feel the car and trailer will at least be together when the cops find them.

When I was writing this journal chapter I decided to call the manufacturer and tell him about the fenders falling off. I did. He said no problem he would send me replacements. I asked if they would be plastic also and he said yes they had gotten a bad pallet of them back in the winter. The fender manufacturer said the plastic was mixed wrong and caused them to crack. He said they have been making this trailer since 1972 and this is the first time they have had a problem so he believed the guy. I believed the Trailex man. He took down my address and phone number and said he would send me a new set right away. That made me happy.

The trailer costs me only 2 to 3 miles per gallon behind my little HHR 4 banger. I am now doing the edit of this chapter and the fenders have arrived and been put on the trailer. It took less than a week from the time I called the manufacturer. I can recommend his trailers. I have been more than pleased with the product and think it is the only way to go. The single canoe version model number is SUT-200-S. The company makes trailers for more than one canoe but I didn’t have enough foresight to buy one. Should have but didn’t.

Warning to the mechanically impaired: This is a mail order trailer and it comes in three boxes. You know where this is going. Another engineer messing with my mind. Be ready to spend some time putting this thing together. It works but the instructions are vague to say the least.

Back to the river…..

I got my real first shock of the day when I waded out to un-strap the canoe. I was wearing my 12-year-old Teva sandals and the cold bit down like a vise on my toes. Dang it was cold. The water was about 55 degrees and right out of the bottom of the lake a few hundred yards away. I immediately found my brand new REI water booties. They are called Venture Warmers. They look like a rubber version of the old black, high topped, Converse basketball shoes. After putting them on it was like a different world. I could wade around all I wanted and the cold did not affect my feet. Even though the booties only came up to my ankles the cold didn’t affect my shins or calves. I assumed the shin and calf area is not as sensitive as the feet. I don’t know why. I just know it was much more comfortable with the wet suit type booties. I recommend to you cold water folks, get a pair right away. The wet suit type gloves work great as well.

When Debbie dropped me off I still had more arranging to do. I don’t know what my compulsion is but I seem to spend way too much time fiddling with gear. Before I could shove off I had coolers to ice for cold drinks and lunchmeat. I had two or three bags of excess stuff. Two days before I felt all of it was absolutely necessary and now I had a lot of dead weight.

I got everything into the boat, adjusted my outriggers so the floats would not be touching the water. Now a word about what my cousin, John Copeland McKelvey, aka Heinous McGurk, called my canoe training wheels. I don’t care if he thinks they are for sissies. I haven’t turned over in 56 degree water traveling at 6 mph and I don’t plan on doing so. At my age I intend to use wisdom and safety whenever I can. (if only I could recognize either of them it would help) I’ve spent my life doing it the other way and sometimes it can get downright dangerous doing things the hardheaded way. Nah ne nah ne noooon noooo, John Copeland, the damned things worked great and I made the trip with a greater sense of security with them.

My floats came from the same retail mail order outfit where I bought my trailer, Castle Craft Equipment of Braidwood, Ill. They were made by Spring Creek Design and worked really well both under power and just floating down the river. For someone who is nervous about the easily tilted canoes these outriggers are wonderful. If you travel alone like I do it’s ok to cheat any way you can for safety. It’s your life.

The two other cheaters I used were a three and a half horse Mercury outboard and two Harmony bow and stern stuffers. If my side outriggers were called training wheels then these heavy-duty, form-fitting blow ups could be called water wings for canoes. Again, at this age, caution is key. When canoes turn over they don’t float without some sort of floatation device helping. My Explorer has no built in floatation. So I thought if I turn over and get separated from the boat I would at least be able to wave goodbye.

At 16, two of my buddies and I swam the White just below the dam at Batesville. It was at night and a foolish thing to do but then we were bullet proof. Besides there were chicks on the sandbar having their senior week luau. Our chief trouble planner, Al Harris the Third, felt we had to do something impressive. After all, this was the class a year a head of us and we thought they were cool. I still don’t know if the girls were impressed but I still remember it 45 years later. That swim was a thriller and even though we thought we were tough we knew the river was boss.

Back to the river….

The motor worked great. I had made a couple of planning mistakes and a huge mistake when ordering it. I mistakenly ordered a long shaft motor. That made the shaft darned near six inches longer than the normal. What that does to a river runner is terrible. I had extended the motor far deeper into the water than necessary. I should have been working to keep the prop as shallow as possible.

The mistake was countered by adding a jake plate to the Mad River side mount. By adding 8 inches we lifted the prop to within 3 inches of the keel depth. The problem with that is I am going down the river with my motor darned near head high. That action has a reaction from gravity. By raising the motor so high I had inadvertently raised the boat’s center of gravity. Not good. In turn that makes the canoe even more tippy than when we started. Tippy is bad. Tippy is why we have training wheels in the first place. Tippy, tippy, tippy bad deal. The second problem is when you beach the boat it now needs a kick-stand. Yeah, just like a motorcycle. The motor is so high and the forty pounds becomes greater. The motor weight wants to turn the canoe over as soon as the large counter balance gets up off his seat and steps out of the canoe.

This is where the outriggers do double duty. By lowering the floats to the lowest position, i.e. touching the water, the left one actually does provide enough floatation to act as a water born kickstand. The motor had to be in the down or running position. Now at least the boat doesn’t fall on its side and fill with water.

The water wings had to be tied into place. When traveling at highway speed the wind whips at the rear float, and it attempts to fly out onto the highway. I deflated it and put it into the car rather than fight the forces of I-30 wind. You also want to tie them in place so they can perform their duties if the boat ever does capsize. It doesn’t make much sense to buy your boat water wings and then fail to attach them.

With all my little paranoid precautions in place, I still tie each and every bag and the motor to the boat. I want to be able to retrieve all my gear in case of turning over. I always wear my full sized life jacket. I don’t apologize for any of this behavior. I love life and plan on getting a whole bunch more out of it before I kick. It’s hard to get a thrill from canoeing if your under the water rather than floating on top and therein lies the bottom line. Live life to the fullest but be damned sure to come back alive so you can love it another day.

That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it. I has spoken…….

Chapter Three

Talk, talk, talk………….
Finally, we’re gonna shove off…I think.

It turns out that Bull Shoals State Park is a great starting place. The park has finest riverside campsites I have ever seen. It has great camping for both tent and RVs. Just as importantly the park has good showers and bathroom facilities. The showers and bathrooms become scarce as soon as you shove off from Bull Shoals.

The riverside campsites remind me off a lakeside State Park somewhere in up state New York. Sorry, too many years have gone by since that one. Can’t remember where or even when I did that trip. Wooden platforms built for tents with a nice little picnic table and right over the water. Neat deal. It was a beautiful lake and scenery was fantastic. Some of the state parks rival National Parks in facilities as well as locale. My opinion.
Bull Shoals campground is very busy so be sure to make a reservation.

Next to the ramp is a great little dock with a ship’s store. They have ice, bait and tackle and are happy to see walk-ins. In other words they are interested in your float fishing business. I purchased my ice and walked a short 25 yards to my boat.
As I loaded the boat for the floating set up, several people stopped to chat. Most had a friendly question or two while some offered advice. Some suggested places to stay or maps to purchase. Many of the people were from the campground and were more or less stranded due to the high water. When I say stranded I mean they came to wade out and fly fish but the water is too swift and far too deep.

Unfortunately for many families there would be nothing but bank fishing for this vacation. The sad part of that was the daddies had counted on teaching their kids to fly fish. They took their vacation from work, reserved a campsite, brought his camper trailer and left his small boat at home. Now he needs the boat. It’s not good to try to cast the fly with people walking all around the shore behind you. Not good at all. I could tell the joy was out of several dads’ plans.

I heard the same story from several campers as they made early morning mournful walks up and down the gravel beach. They looked as if they were trying to stare the water down. Some had been there almost a week but it had been the same each morning. Later in the day I stopped for lunch and heard the same story from a couple of retired Texans.

Looking back as I write this journal, I have to think the fathers were probably better off on the beach. The people I saw in boats were not catching fish. The water was too swift for the kids safety. They might not have had as much fun but everybody got to go home when the vacation was over. They probably stood as good a chance at catching fish from that bank as others in boats. I fished for three hours from a boat and didn’t get a bite. I blamed it on high water. Who knows when it comes to fishing.

Shoving off

As I pushed off from the State Park the quickening water tugged at the little canoe and away we went. I cranked the little motor and she started right up. I turned the craft downstream and the game was a foot. Six months of conception and planning coming to fruition. I didn’t want to get too excited. Only last month Chris Leavitt and I had made the same drive and preparation. Ended up having to come back to the trailer with less than a 100 yards under our keel.

Soon I was in the river fog and putting along at trolling speed. Trolling in still water would run me along at somewhere around 2 miles per hour maybe a little less. In this current, the GPS said I was topping seven. It doesn’t seem like much but speed is relative to what else is happening at the same time. For instance if you’re trying to fish and your hook gets caught on the bottom. The current doesn’t stop. It just keeps on moving you downstream, reel screaming, line playing out, the river doesn’t care that you are about to loose your brand new $5 lure. As the man said, it just keeps on rolling along.

I was very much concerned about the shoals. I had been warned about the possibility of capsizing or ripping the bottom open. But today, rocks were not to be a problem. The flooded river would carry me high above the rocky shoals and save scarring the bottom of the little boat. I halfway believed everything was o.k. but the other half of me was looking for what Buddy Joe Hipp calls “gloom and doom”. I was nervous to say the least.

I soon learned the boat responded to the little motor’s direction “sort of, kinda, when it got ready, at it’s own pace”. I had too damned much gear. Over planned this deal as usual. It was sluggish in its’ turns but constantly in need for tiller. The river seemed to have a pulling power of it’s own. It seemed to always be pushing the boat toward one shore or the other. Especially, when I was looking away or trying to accomplish other duties. Here I am going down a strange river too fast for my experience level in a tipsy little boat and I am trying to learn how to work a complicated GPS and a sonar device at the same time. Not to mention I planned on catching the World Record German Brown Trout or Troutzilla as he is known locally. I also intended to float 60 miles or so in a couple of days. Maybe just a little ambitious, huh?

What I learned fairly quickly was the tiller has to be priority number one. You cannot let the current carry you into a group of flooded trees or bushes. You cannot trust the covered shoals because instead of rocks and rapids you are now seeing angry-looking boiling water. I noticed my left hand had become glued to the little Mercury’s throttle handle. I had to keep the motor running at minimum speed, yet not let it choke out. The boat had to stay on course lest I go for a swim while chasing all my fishing and camping gear. I had visions of myself swimming along amidst a flotilla of my water-proof gear bags. There I am trying to gather them up and swim to shore in the cold, cold water. Argh, not a good day dream.

Chapter 4 The dreaded moment...Proud Mary meet the shoals.

As the boat picked up speed I was torn between looking at the campgrounds and trying to figure out how far it was to the first shoals. That dilemma didn’t take long to sort itself out. As soon as I looked at my Game and Fish map, I saw I was going over a shoals right then. The GPS can’t tell you about danger but it was doing a good job of telling me where I was and how fast I was going. At that moment I was thinking how I would really like to slow the whole deal down to slow motion. I just wanted to see what was ahead of me and the fog was coming in thicker. The visibility range was growing smaller and smaller. Not a good thing at all. No Sireee.

I knew Gaston’s couldn’t be far down river but my little map didn’t show the distance. My GPS knowledge was a little, no, a lot sketchy at this point so I just motored slowly and watched the shore. Islands were an immediate scare for me. I never knew which side to take. It seems that I always have to sweat it out until I can get close enough to see which is the wider channel. That makes me nervous because I don’t know what the shoals or current situation will be at that point nor do I know if my little motor will pull me to the correct side of the island if I don’t read the water quickly enough. Hell I’m new, the equipment is new, and I have never done any of this in my life. Its’ ok to be nervous, doofus. Don’t sweat it.

As I searched for a little cheater help on this deal I noticed the GPS had the county line running down the center of the river. I assumed the channel would be considered the dividing line between the two counties. That lead me to follow the route of the county line. Hopefully the river channel had not changed since the counties divvied up the land. The river changing course and creating oxbows apparently would happen more often in the delta counties than in the rockier hill country. This would be especially true in the leatherwoods where the hills tend to come right to the edge of the river. Limestone cliffs tend to dictate where the river is going to run for millions of years rather than a decade or so as in the delta.

Back to the river and our trout trail…..

Just below the State Park and before you get to Gaston’s, the little boat came to its’ first island. At Caine Island you have to choose the left side of the split and, in the process, got the first real shoals. This is one of those darned if you do and darned if you don’t deals. Go to the right and the channel is too small. Go to the left and you are with the main channel but it goes over some significant shoals. Since I was there at high water I can’t supply any information as to how these or any other shoals are to be run nor would I. Neither can I tell you what the other side looks like during normal water levels. There might not even be an island or a second channel on the other side but I wouldn’t know having been down this route only one time and at high water.

Every day the water will be different and each voyageur will have to read the water and make the best decision they can for that given moment. Each shoal on the river will change with the amount of water the dam is discharging.

You are always at the mercy of the power generation needs. Sometimes like this trip, they are putting out way too much water for fly fishermen’s wading comfort. It was uncomfortable for the float fishing as well as canoe newbies trying to GPS and fish at the same time. Kayakers, sans fishing, would probably have a ball.

But during some extended low outflow periods, they don’t let out enough water to keep the trout alive. There was a law passed, but I don’t think implemented, which will require the power company to allow a minimum water flow to feed the river. At least enough to keep the trout alive. So far the power company just does whatever they want, trout be damned.

The other thing everyone should know about this particular dam and it may be true of all power generation operations is they will never tell you their future water flow intentions. They will tell the Game and Fish Department how many gates they have had open. Southwest Power will tell game and Fish what they are doing right now. But they refuse to tell anyone of their future plans no matter what the rest of the world is trying to plan. Tough situation for Game and Fish folks to be in I would say. I understand how it must really frustrate people who are trying to make any sort of plans concerning the river. This affects the river for more than a hundred miles of shoreline. I really have no idea at this point how far down it does affect the water level. It is the primary source of the White until you pass enough feeder creeks to equal and surpass the volume coming out of the dam.

Back to the River….

Caine Island seemed to have shoals the entire length of the island. At least the water was bumpy and somewhat turbulent all the way through the narrows. After I passed the downstream tip, all seemed to smooth out. Soon after Caine Island, Gaston’s appeared on the left. Barely a month had passed since Chris Leavitt and I had eaten some really great smoked trout in that dining room. The place reeks of old money and charm. The food was good and not too pricey. About like Dallas prices for the same menu I would guess. Leavitt might have a different opinion since he was the guy picking up the tab that day.

Soon after Gastons, things began to pick up. The seventeen-year-old Mad River Explorer went thru Partee Shoals, Bruce Creek Shoals, Three Chutes and past Turkey Bottom Island, Blue Hole and White Hole. Seven miles from the Dam, I encountered White Hole Access. The ramps are provided by the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission. They usually have a couple of portable outhouses and a trash dumpster along with the boat ramp. They are a very welcome sight and a safe place to pull off the river. In many areas there were flooded woods on one side and high limestone bluffs on the other. So these ramps really come in handy even if all you want to do is stretch your legs or grab a bite to eat from your kit. But the main reason I liked them were the port-a-johns. Ah yes, very important sometimes.

At this point I had been on the river less than 7 miles and had crossed the same number of shoals. I needed a chance to catch up with my heart. They were not dangerous but they just made you very well aware that the river was in control and you were just visiting. The other part was maybe even more important. The morning’s coffee was taking it’s toll and I needed a pit stop badly. This is where the fog and the current become nefarious. They teamed up on me. I could not see either bank. I mean this fog was thick. I could see upward to the heavens, it was just a really heavy river fog. I couldn’t see 40 yards in any direction. At some points the fog danced and twirled in the wind. I wondered if this was one of those other world dimensions I had read about. Carlos Castenadas or Cormac McCarthy maybe? Who knows, just another faint memory in an overflowing hard drive?

All of a sudden, I heard a scary distant sound. This was one that should have been an obvious concern but I had not even thought about. The scary sound was a fishing boat coming up river but not be able to see it. It seemed like an eternity before the boat, usually a 20-foot Jon boat with a guide and his two or three passengers, would appear. When they, did the boat would usually be off my bow by some 40 yards and a little to the right or left. I was probably running in the wrong track. I had chosen to go as straight down the middle as I could since the only landmarks I could see were tops of trees or cliffs on either riverbank. If there weren’t any tall objects bordering the river then I had nothing to judge the shoreline. That was it. Look right, look left then adjust your course by trying to stay half way between what you guessed was the shore. I think I passed and island or two without knowing if I was on the correct side. I couldn’t always stop and look at the GPS to use my county line theory.

The guides were gracious when most slowed their boats down to a crawl while passing. I wasn’t putting out much of a wake as the little canoe was still putting along at trolling or minimum throttle. Sometimes, but not often, I would be passed by a private boat. At least they didn’t look like a guide and his clients. The private boats reminded me of Dallas drivers and did not slow down. That little bit of river etiquette could be big trouble for a canoe or overloaded small Jon boat. Big waves are not our friends and the guides recognize the fact. I think they probably do that for each other as well. Call it hillbilly manners but it is mostly common sense and the Golden Rule. I appreciated it for darn sure. Thanks for the courtesy y’all.


Here’s my advice to you who follow these “Trout Trails”, especially you old boomer guys. Don’t pass up any ramps or their services. You will suffer the consequences I promise. Apparently the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission ramp planners are old timers like me. Otherwise they would never of thought to place a ramp at the halfway point between every major take out on the upper river. I know they will deny what I just said and say it is for better access for the fishing public but I will always know I have discovered the truth.

These guys scouted the potential ramp location by boat. They had the same bladder urges any other red blooded boomer aged, coffee drinker would have at mid morning. Ergo the ramp locations make ideal pit stops.

Thank you Game & Fish and Red Wilson.

Chapter 5

Cotter, cameras and the sixties.

At this point my next stop would be Cotter. I had been on the river a couple of hours and was making better time than I realized. I still had my head in the navigational problems and my fear of the unknown evil shoals monsters. After all, I had been hearing about and dreading the shoals for over a month. I had reached Wildcat Shoals and was better than half way to Cotter. Heck, I was going to make Cotter by lunch time. It looked as if this trip was going by much faster than I had planned.

It wasn’t anything I was doing. I was just trying to keep the boat afloat and stay out of everybody’s way. I was trying to learn to work my gps and my little handheld depth finder with one hand but I still had a death grip on the tiller with the other. At this point there was no third fishing hand available. I was traveling in the waters of Troutzilla the world record German Brown Trout and couldn’t even wet a hook. Man, what kind of deal was this ?

The gps learning experience was a struggle. Mostly click and look to see what I had done. Trial and error is the way of a photographer. Read the manual at last option. The Delorme was a different animal. Even when I read the manual I couldn’t understand it or make the gps do what I wanted. Somebody needs to teach the Delorme folks what the term user friendly means.

The depth finder temp gauge was a different deal altogether. It was as easy to work as a flashlight and even looked like one. Place it in water two or three inches and click the switch just like turning on a flash light. One click gives you the depth and two clicks gives you the water temperature. Really neat info for under a hundred bucks. It came from Marine West in Garland, Texas.

The gps was indeed leaving a “cookie trail” and that was the main thing I was wanted to do. I still needed to learn more about how to mark places and designate them with various symbols but that would come later. The idea of a slow leisurely pace while reading the gps manual and practicing was not working out. I decided I would just go along with the river and do whatever it demanded, gps and fishing be damned.

Photography, did I say photography ? How is it that an “award winning” professional photographer has not mentioned pictures? The answer is very simple. Too darned much water and too little experience. This is the first time I have ever been in a river canoe by myself. I have never navigated a strange river at high tide so to speak. This is the first time I have run an outboard motor for any length of time since I was in high school. I am 61 and haven’t even thought of going camping in 15 years. Adventure ! I wanted adventure in my life, well by gosh, I got my share today.

The camera and two lenses were tucked away in one of the water-tight bags. The bags were full of gear and stowed all over the canoe. Each gear bag was tied to the boat and almost all were out of my reach. Even if I could have reached them, it was no time to be crawling around and trying to untie the knots. It really didn’t matter the fog was too thick for pictures.

Finally, as I neared Cotter the fog began to lift and the river widened slightly. What I did not know at the time was the river had dropped dramatically and slowed down while I was floating down from Bull Shoals. At that point I could get a few shots of the river scene. There was nothing spectacular to show such as the big bluffs I had seen but at least I could snap a few pics to give folks an idea of the countryside.

One thing I was more than a little concerned about was water splashing on the cameras. In this day and time we live with computers in everything. The cameras are very finicky when it comes to water. You can lose the whole body with just a small amount of water splashed onto it. The bouncing and jostling canoe was not my favorite shooting platform.

I brought only two lenses. A wide zoom and a medium wide zoom. I chose them because I figured this was to be an internet or book shoot and I wanted to tell the river’s story not critters on the bank or birds in the trees. Longer lenses would have added to the story but I didn’t want to risk the gear. That decision was beginning to feel like the only right one so far.

The fog lifted then rose again. The process seemed to repeat itself several times. The water was so cold, continuously 56 degrees, it clashed with the warming summer air. I guess the river was creating it’s own little climate.

One of the strangest things I’ve ever seen, and I mentioned this briefly, was what I would come to call the river spirits. Sprites might be a closer description. When the fog rose sometimes it would leave a few traces of itself hanging just above the water. Then as if the piece of fog would come to life it would begin to twirl like a dirt devil. As the fog “spirit” danced down the river it sort of made you look around to see if any one else was witnessing the same thing. It was one of those things where if in the company of others you would probably wait to see if someone else said something first.

I never saw a ‘river spirit or sprite “ in the presence of others but then I was seldom around people. Was it real or was it a haint ? Could it have been a figment of my imagination ? I know one thing for sure, they were fascinating to watch. Twirling, swirling, around and around, twisting up and down a few feet, then up into the warmer air to hide behind the sun.

Sometimes the sprites would twirl on down the river into deeper fog. That would be the last you would see of them. I don’t really know what caused them. I don’t know why I felt pockets of warm air when it was so cold. I had on a goretex rain jacket with the hood pulled tight over my Tilley hat. Over the rain outfit I had a full sized lifejacket. My upper body was warm but my shorts offered little protection for those skinny legs. I don’t know why when the sun was so hot and the foggy rain so cold. I don’t understand the cold air in the sunshine. None of it made sense and it kept my glasses fogged constantly. Not good.

I don’t know a lot about the river that’s for sure. I know I am drawn back. I can’t wait to go again. I think about camping and floating. I think about the fog and I wonder if it will be sunny or rainy the next time out. Like Alaska, the river gets into your blood and calls constantly. I keep thinking it must be the call of the wild. Or however we are supposed to explain those primeval urges built into our bones. Then on the other hand it could be the kicks provided by the adrenalin.

I have great memories of boating, fishing, water skiing and swimming on Lake Norfork and Lock 1 area of the White River as a kid.

Uh oh I think I see another off the river deal coming up…..

As a teenager I was drawn to a big sandbar below the dam at Batesville. That attraction might have had to do with another set of primeval urges and an altogether different set of jeans. Hormones and Levi’s with a little Budweiser thrown in might have had a little something to do with it. But all that was in a place far, far away, in a time long, long ago.

There it was, just below the dam, a big old sandbar with a few old cars, some big ice chests, a bunch of pretty pony tails, and the inevitable bonfire. Which all brings to mind the poetic essence of teenage America in 1963. A great American poet, Mr. J.P. Richardson, probably captured the eras’ primeval thought better than anyone before or after him. I’m not good at quoting poetry but here goes: “a wiggle in the walk, a giggle in the talk, that’s what made the world go round, ain’t nothing in the world like a big eyed girl, make you act so funny, make you spend your money, make you feel real loose like a long neck goose, aw baby you know what I like” .

Those sentiments must have been what drew us to the river in the days of American Graffiti. And yes, we all remember the day the music died. Rave on, Buddy, Big Bopper and my man Ritchie.

Chapter 6

Back to the river………..Cotter

I think I left off in the fog. It was a little chilly but not near as much as it would be later.

Since I am making a map of my own I should mention the maps I used on this trip. The Game and Fish map from the trout fishing booklet was great. I had purchased a Jim Priest map at the Cotter Trout Dock. Unfortunately, I stored it in a bag I couldn’t reach without docking the boat. I had been told it was a superior map but at this point there wasn’t time to compare.

The Game and Fish map worked great for my purposes. Later I learned the commercial map was larger and added info on the outfitters. It would have been nice to know what services they offered float fishermen. Most of the outfitters really don’t offer us a lot. I do know I clutched that little booklet with an eagle grip. It was the only way to know when the next island or shoals would show up. That was important information. It also gave me an idea which side of the island the channel followed. I would think that in low water times that wouldn’t be a problem at all. When the water is this high, both sides of the island look to be the “real” channel. The false channel could drive you right into a grove trees or vine covered saplings.

Back to the river….oops… I didn’t make it last time.

The fog had more or less lifted as the Cotter Bridges came into view. I was able to snap a few pictures and the water seemed to be tamer.

I still wasn’t comfortable running hands free to shoot pictures. I had not wet a hook. It was now noon or a little after. The belly was telling me to stop and eat. Also I needed to find the port-a-potty. The Cotter Trout Dock began to look like a port in a storm. Little did I realize how meaningful that phrase would become.

As I eased under the Cotter bridges I looked at the big old bridge pilings. On the downriver side of the closest piling was a giant whirlpool. That big old swirl was larger in diameter than my itty bitty canoe was long. I steered as far away from it as I could. I knew that thing couldn’t take me to the bottom of the river. But as a child I had learned that bad things happen at the bottom of whirlpools. Folklore is usually based on some sort of logic to keep people from harm. If nothing else the people of the “Leatherwoods” had folklore galore. I had been a downriver kid from a “big” town of 5000 people. I should not have been exposed to the legends of the hills. I guess some of those old wives tales must have floated down river. I don’t know where I heard the stories but it must have been the old folks.

I can’t prove there isn’t some sort of sea serpent at the bottom of White River’s whirlpools. Nor can I prove he’s not down there waiting for the next careless boater. I am sure that someone could go down there and disprove this hillbilly legend but I know one thing for sure, it ain’t gonna be me.

As I motored into the Trout Dock’s little cove I soon saw why the river had begun to feel a little tamer. The places I had marked the night before were now three feet above water. They had shut down the seven gates. The water must have been dropping down the whole time I had been on the river. I had been on the tail end of the crest. So I guess the Proud Mary was surfing the back side of a wave. That’s probably weird water logic but it makes sense to me right now.

I parked the canoe as high up on the grassy lawn as possible and threw out the anchor. I took the bow rope and tied it to a stake in the lawn just in case.
I went in to say hello to Debbie and Ron. Debbie was there but Ron and the guides were out on their appointed duties. One client had cancelled that morning causing the dock to have to pay a guide for a lost day. If they can’t collect from the customer the last minute cancellations are tough. People apparently wake up with a hangover or cold or the wife wants to go sightseeing so they cancel.

This morning when the dock folks called the client at his hotel he said his wife was scared it was going to rain. The dock told them no problem they furnish little poncho’s just in case. The city man couldn’t believe they would go fishing in the rain. Rains come and go on the river. It might rain all day or fifteen minutes. The dock master told him, “you bet especially if you and I have to pay the guide rain or shine”. The man showed up an hour and a half late. Sometimes they don’t even bother to call to let the dock know they’re not coming. Tacky folks. We all agreed that being a mom and pop business has gotten a lot tougher. People have decided to listen to lawyers instead of living up to their word or handshake. Now we have all these laws and nobody pays attention to them. We were much better off when the original Ten were obeyed. Sometimes it’s better to be on the river and not try to figure it out. I wonder who we have to blame for this mess? I can tell you it did not start in the “leatherwoods.”

The guides tell me things are not the same in the hills as they were when we were kids. They tell me to be sure to lock up my gear especially my fishing stuff. Both guides agreed, camping with my gear had been a good idea.

When I asked why the changes in basic community morals they told me it was a recent thing. I guess in the back of my mind I already knew the answer. I just didn’t want to hear it.

Methamphetamines………ice. It is the scourge of the Ozarks just as it is in such formerly pristine places as rural Iowa. Meth is eating rural America bite by bite. Little towns and villages are losing their good hard working young people to it. There seems to be nothing to save us from this plague.

I keep thinking someday we will have a great revival in this nation. I keep thinking Christianity will rise up and take this country back. But it is so, so hard to help the young ones when all of their information comes from the hard left. That includes the government indoctrination schools some call public. How can you combat all the movie and television leftist propaganda? The revival has to be felt among the children first. I’m afraid it will take the hand of God to change their minds and hearts. I just hope HE doesn’t use the Old Testament examples of attention getting. It’s a toughie and I don’t have an answer except to pray for a gentle form of Divine intervention.

Back to the river…………..

Debbie was quite surprised to see me. She thought I wouldn’t arrive until late afternoon. I was just as surprised. She must have thought I was out there fishing my little heart out. Little did she know I was white knuckling the tiller almost the entire time. Debbie and I discussed whether she could meet me at Norfork the following day. I asked how long she thought it would take me to reach the island. I wanted to make sure I could reach it by dark. She said I would need to get back on the river fairly soon to make it. I agreed. I would hate to set up a wilderness camp in the dark. I would be shoving off as soon as I finished one chore.

I had decided I was dealing with what two more great American poets, Delbert and Lyle, called “Too much stuff”. While I was docked near my car I took the opportunity to unload about a fifth of my gear. Extra food, extra fishing rod, extra paddles, seats, you name it and I got rid of it. It’s a problem with me. This too much stuff thing. I always try to plan for the “what if”. Then when I get to a real “what if”, I have so much gear I can’t find my “what if” fix it gadget.

ARGH…happens all the time. With my camera gear I have a lot of gizmo’s but each of those have a specific purpose and are kept in the same reachable place at all times. I say put it back where it lives so we will know where to reach it the next time. It always works. There is a lot to be said for the familiarity of a daily routine.

With all of this camping, fishing, boating, eating and mapping gear who knows where to find anything. I needed to cut down on stuff. We’ve got too much stuff to deal with emergencies. Even after I unloaded the extra gear, the canoe still weighed too much. Unfortunately, I didn’t know it at the time. Nor was I aware how important it would become a few minutes later.

I had tied my GPS to a bag right in front of my cramped knees. That darned tackle box had me where I couldn’t straighten my legs. A few days before I thought I just had to have a big box so I could put all my fishing tackle in one place. When I did my test run on Lake Lavon it was not a problem. I didn’t have all the other gear in the boat. The lake was calm and I could lean back against my little canoe seat and prop my feet up on the tackle box. I rode along at trolling speed thinking I had it made. This was not Lake Lavon on a calm day. This was a much longer trip. I needed room for my legs.

After repacking the canoe I shoved off thinking I would take a break at the first Game and Fish ramp. At that point I would be able to grab a quick lunch. Now I know why the outfitters prefer a shore lunch. It’s too damned much trouble to eat in the boat. The next stop was to be a short run and I was hungry.

The river was about to teach me a lesson in time management and relativity. One, time is everything in an emergency. Two, neither the river nor weather gives a damn about you or your time perspective. The river and weather are going to do what they are going to do no matter whether you like it or not. So get used to it and either deal with it or get off the river.

All this conversation about the rough water and being concerned should be taken with a grain of salt. The river changes from hour to hour depending on how much electricity is needed by the grid. One or eight gates, it’s all the same to the power generating guys and the river. The amount of experience you have in your boat and on the river is what will create your comfort level. Having said all that, I am afraid I have left the impression that the White changes constantly. It does not. The river might go for months with very little change in volume. I just happened to hit it on a rough few days. I heard later the level went down about the time I left and stayed there for weeks. Just my luck I guess.

My comfort level had reached a high anxiety zone and stayed there immediately after shoving off that morning. If I had been an experienced river hand I would have enjoyed the high water. The old heads would love going over the shoals at this speed.
Again, it’s a personal thing and I don’t mean to scare anyone. I do want you to understand what you will be facing. Then it’s up to you. If you are comfortable with your equipment and experience then jump on it. Contact the outfitters or Southwestern Power to learn about water conditions then make your decision on river travel for that day.

As I shoved off from the serene little cove at the Cotter Trout Dock I had no idea my anxiety was about to reach new highs. As I reached the channel I noticed the speed and power was returning to the river. The water was on the rise again. The turbulence was back. It was boiling underneath the little craft as I motored out into the current. I had noticed the clouds while packing and repacking the gear. I was hot and sweaty from the sun and I enjoyed the coolness of breeze. I dipped a little 56 degree water and poured it over my head and shirt. I did not take into consideration what that cool breeze meant.


I was less than forty-eight hours out of big city life and had not reacquired my animal instincts. That put me at a disadvantage. Normally, after being in the out of doors for a few hours you notice the primitive instincts start to creep back into your soul. Possibly they had returned but maybe it had been too long and I had forgotten how to pay attention. Maybe the caution instinct was overshadowing all the others? In any case I was thinking like a city guy. In present day society rain is, at worst, a minor nuisance. Our travel decisions are made on the time required to achieve a goal rather than the consideration of a real and present danger. Safety from the elements is almost a given in our cars and homes. We just don’t worry about the weather unless it is a severe storm like a hurricane or tornado. My senses should have been shouting. “Those are storm clouds you idiot. You have to stay at the dock until they pass”.

Instead, I pushed on, anxious to get to the next ramp and lunch. Then onto the camping area and in general keeping up with my self imposed schedule. Same thing got me into trouble in Costa Rica once but that’s a different story.

Chapter 7

Welcome to the River’s World….or
nature takes control.

Within seconds of entering the main channel I felt like I was flying down the river. The boat was going over what I figure is Roundhouse Shoals. The map shows an island coming up. I began to line the Proud Mary up for a run at the left side. I checked the GPS to see if it is showing the county line going in the same path. The darned thing is completely dark. I tried to restart it figuring I had turned it off while at the Dock. Meanwhile, I feel the involuntary tightening of my fingers on the tiller. The fog begins to set in and I hear thunder above the little Mercury’s chatter. Uh Oh, now we’ve got a real problem.

Those clouds don’t just mean rain, dummy, they have thunder and lightening in them as well. How could you forget or be so arrogant as to think you could go out in this situation and ignore lightening????

But here’s the kicker. I really am at work. This whole trip is about making a map with the GPS. If the GPS isn’t running it doesn’t create the required tracking history and I am not getting my job done. Not only am I wasting time but I will have to repeat this leg of the trip. With the GPS not working I am actually placing myself in harms’ way for no reason. This is part of my job. It will also mean another 1000 mile drive.

I think how can this happen? This morning I put in brand new, fully charged, high dollar factory batteries and now the darned things aren’t working. No problem. I can just replace them.
About that time the rain started coming down harder and the thunder started to get closer. I realized I didn’t know where I had packed the backup AA batteries. I wasn’t thinking straight or I would have remembered the batteries were in the camera bag at my feet. I thought I would have to crawl up to the front, untie a bag, if I figured out which one, and bring it to the back. Then take the back off the GPS and replace the batteries in the rain.

I realized crawling up the boat and the rest was not an option. The water was roiling under the boat. The island was fast approaching and that would mean faster water through a narrow chute. None of this was making me feel good about my situation. I took what I thought would be the safest course. I turned the little boat around and headed her back upstream to the quiet little cove. The current had carried me no more than 500 yards down the river. The rain and fog were increasing but I could still see back up river when I turned her into the current. At least I had this option and wouldn’t have to travel the five miles in a storm.

At least that’s what I thought. Wrongo, el stupido. The little Mercury just wasn’t big enough to handle the challenge. I don’t know a lot about outboard motors but I think I mounted the motor too high and at the wrong angle to get a power prop attitude going. I gunned the motor about one third throttle and waited. I looked at the bank. I was still sliding backwards down river. I could tell I had slowed the down river movement some but I sure wasn’t going upstream.

Now here’s a little problem that had always bothered me. I was concerned about the motor mounting system on the canoe. Without a transom on one end the canoe folks have come up with a bracing bar that fits across the rear of the canoe. That brace has a big block of wood on the left side where the motor clamps. The brace itself has to clamp onto the boat’s wooden gunnels using a big screw down bracket on each end. The wood of the gunnels has to be strong enough to handle the torque of the engine. It also has to handle any shock created when the motor hits rocks or logs.

I had concerns the seventeen-year-old wood might have dry rot. Would the clamps rip the wood off the gunnels if put under enough stress? We were about to find out. The mechanics had warned me about torquing the bracket off. Now all that information rushed into my little paranoid, freaked-out brain.

Needless to mention, low batteries became less of a priority. I gunned the motor to two-thirds power. I looked over at the shore to judge my progress. I should have said lack of progress. I was staying even at best. That might have been a little generous. I was really concerned about wood gunnels now. If that happened I would have to watch my little motor spiral to the bottom. That would leave me one motor shy of a full deck but certainly not high and dry.

I knew I was not canoeist enough to control this heavy little boat especially in this water. I had seen that as I paddled out at Bull Shoals. The boat was still loaded too heavy, the current too strong and the paddler far too inexperienced.

At this point I decided to cut my losses or create new ones depending on how this gamble played out. I turned the boat toward the island chute and headed down river into the storm. I think it was at this point the fog came in for good and the temperature dropped quickly. Only minutes before I was throwing water on my shirt to cool off. Now I was cold. I knew I was in for a tough 5 miles.

The natural question would be why did you think you had to wait five miles to get out of the storm? Call it stupid or what you want but I think was just as scared of the shoreline as the river and lightening. I knew the access area would be a good place to safely beach the boat. Again, the river is flooded out of its’ banks. The banks on one side usually had a high bank or bluff so that side was not an option. In those cases the other side would have lower banks but they might be covered up in overhanging trees. In some cases there were homes with boat docks. The boat docks concerned me because I didn’t want to try to dock on the upriver side due to possibility of the current pinning the boat to the dock. If I tried to come in from the downriver side I didn’t have enough power to maneuver into the boat slips. I just kept moving with the flow looking through the fog to see if I could locate a nice smooth place to run the boat up on the shore.

Soon the fog set in so thick and the rain coming down so hard I couldn’t even see my options on the shore. At that point, I just wanted to motor my five miles as fast as I dared run the engine. I had her cranked up to about half throttle. What had felt like breakneck speed now seemed like a crawl. The lightening was in the distance but closing fast. The thunder kept me aware of my predicament.

I had goose bumps all over. I was cold. I wanted my rain parka. I hurriedly pulled my life jacket off. I’m thinking, how ironic, lightening, fog, rain and fast current and he pulls his life jacket off. What a dummy. I got the parka on and then squirmed back into my “life” vest. I think I might have set a record that the fellows on the Bering Sea would envy. That’s’ when I realized they call it a life preserver for a reason. My legs were purple or blue or some wigged-out color but I would survive the water. I had never seen my legs go Technicolor. I pulled my parka hood tight over my new Tilley hat and snapped the throat closure. The Warmer’s shoe booties were working great. My feet were wet but warm.

I kept motoring as fast as I dared push the motor and the wood. All of a sudden the motor jumped and lurched. There was a brief cavatation sound. The motor jumped up like it had hit bottom. Then it happened again. I cut the engine to idle for a moment. My heart was in my throat. Everything seemed to be working all right so I kicked her back up and off we went again. In about 15 minutes I heard another cavatation sound and looked down in front of the motor and beside the boat. A branch from a tree was lodged against the front of the shaft. I reached down, pulled it out and threw it away. That was the last of those little shenanigans. I figured the Proud Mary had run over a submerged tree.

Meanwhile the fog would come and go. Once again I saw a sea sprite or whirling dervish made of fog. Hmmm, that spooky river trick was starting to get old.

The fog lifted as I passed a particularly nice riverside home. I could see a man through the rain. He was out walking around on his big old deck. He had docks, boats and quite the set up. When he saw me looking his way from maybe 75 yards, he started waving for me to go down stream in a hurry. He wasn’t frantic but he sure wanted to let me know that I needed to be making time. I was doing all I could without increasing concern about the little motor tearing itself out of the boat.

I waved and yelled to him that I was trying to get to Newport. I don’t think he got the joke. I don’t think I got the concern he had for me. About five minutes later I caught on. The man apparently had just seen the weather report and was telling me to get the hell out of there. The thunder popped close by and a chill went through my body. The rain came down harder and the fog was back. I still had not smelled the ozone. I was thankful for that.

Four more miles. Calculate how long will it take to get to Rim Shoals. Estimate your speed. Figure it out. Good now that you have all that figured out, all you have to do is dodge the lightening bolts until you get there. Let’s see 40 pounds of steel attached by crow clutch and 600 miles or so of grounded water under the boat. No problem. I am the highest point on the water to the tree line. Holy crap, I’m a sitting duck waiting on a bar-b-que.

Oh yes, there is one thing I have forgotten to mention. This scene is not complete without one very, no make that two, irritating problems. I wear glasses. I need glasses to see my map. I need glasses to see shadowy figures coming at me through the fog. I have a vision problem close up as well as distance. So I need my glasses, period. It an age thing. I’m an old cat and I can’t see like the old days.

So what happens amidst the thickest of fog and rain and lightening and thunder ? Not just once but several times I hit air pockets. Hot pockets or cold pockets I don’t know but something caused my glasses to fog completely. I’m not talking about the rain that was already on the lenses, but a fog on the glass lens front and back. This is a serious fog you can’t see through. This was the kind of glasses fog that you wipe away and immediately it’s back on the lens.

I needed to wipe the lenses. I had tied a bandana onto my seat just for general purposes. It was completely soaked from the rain. I tried the one around my neck. It was hidden from the rain by the parka but was still damp from wiping sweat at the dock. It was my best bet so I untied it and pulled the thing from around my neck.

For some reason when I reached up to pull my glasses off I felt something weird happen. Simultaneously, I had a change in vision. Uh oh, the right lens had popped out and was no longer in the frame. Where in the hell did that thing go? In the meantime I still have a grip on the throttle trying to make time down river. The thunder is booming closer and the rain has not let up. And now I can’t see for diddly. Geez Louise, what else could happen? Now I know, I started looking for the lost lens. I had taken enough rain into the canoe that I have a sizable puddle under my seat and feet. Great. I start feeling around in the water leaning over trying to look over a fat belly covered by a puffy parka and a full sized even fatter life preserver. Get real, there is no way I can see over all that. This is to be a brail search. I’m stooping, patting the canoe floor in the water when “the what else could happen” question is answered. I can’t see thru the right eye because the lens is no longer there. The rain is like needles in the eyeball when I try to open that eye. I can’t see thru the left lens because it is covered with fog.

I am basically driving at 8 mph down river with about thirty yards of limited blurred vision when I hear that dreaded hum of a guide boat coming up river. Usually it takes about two to three minutes after I hear them until I actually see the boat coming at me. Maybe I have time to find the lens. Did I mention it was lightening at the time? Well it was!

Sure enough, my hand hits on the unseen lens just below my right knee. A little gasoline floating around in the water shouldn’t hurt the glass, I hope. I wipe it down carefully with the damp bandana. It’s about as clean as I’m going to get it. So I attempt to put it back in the frame.

I gingerly take the glasses off my head and wipe the left side lens. Then set about adding the errant right side. I was trying to be careful not to break the frame or lens. The lens popped in but I could tell it didn’t seat properly. I tell myself, if it will just stay long enough for me to get past this boat I will fix it properly later. But once again I have to sweat it out. Where is the boat going to appear and how far or close will it be to little Proud Mary? The guy shows up with his three passengers. He’s just off to my right. The exact opposite from the way we are supposed to pass.

His boat looks like a guide boat but he doesn’t look like the part. He’s dressed way too fancy. The passengers look wet and ticked off. Sort of like four wet chickens in a rainstorm. They all have on rain gear but you can tell they are not happy about the state of affairs. I don’t blame them. Hell, I’m not happy about it myself. The boat driver doesn’t do me the courtesy of slowing down to lessen his wake. It’s o.k. I decided I would keep my speed as well. As if my little wake would bother them. I will handle it. That boat driver generated a piece of river karma he will have to carry, I guarantee. I wave. They point at me. Whatever.

I got past the boat and took my glasses back off. By this time they had fogged again. I fiddled with the right lens finally getting it back into its’ proper setting and felt it snap in correctly. Now I just had to be super careful when cleaning them. It apparently was going to be a constant battle with the glasses. The fogging and defogging lasted until the rain went away.

Next up Rim Shoals and safety.

Chapter 8

Rim Shoals and Lunch

At that point my little rain soaked government map indicated I was approaching Rim Shoals access point. I ran her aground at the wrong location. I had mistaken a steep private ramp in a cluster of nice new river homes. I guess I was so anxious to get to dry land that any old access looked like the one on the map. After standing there for a moment I realized there were no government signs and more importantly no porta pottys. Oops, wrong place. It had looked good in the lifting fog. About that time the sun came out and warmed the world. I shoved off and motored down around a slow sweeping bend and there was an obvious Fish and Game access area. I plowed into the grassy shoreline. The water had come up quite a bit since I left Cotter an hour before. It was apparent I was parking the canoe on the lawn.

I dragged the boat as far up as my strength would allow. The river was rising rapidly. I noticed the garbage dempsey dumpster truck at work. His charges were located next to the outhouses. When I reached the outhouse the stench of the freshly dumped garbage bins was absolutely awful. Some sort of fish slime still oozed from where it had been spilled by the truck. Flies were everywhere. The buzz was a minor roar like a swarm of bees or mad yellow jackets.

As I walked back from the loo, I looked the other way to avoid the stinking slime on the ground. It was, after all, lunchtime and the Proud Mary was serving.

I tried the GPS again but still could not get a signal of any kind. I looked for the batteries but gave up too quickly. I was hungry thereby the ruling factor was food not batteries.

There were a couple of fellows in fly-fishing outfits standing on the bank using spinning rigs. I knew from one glance they had the same story as the folks back at Bull Shoals State Park. Flooded out of their waders, these two were giving it their best but to them it was a wasted vacation. We chatted briefly about their homes in Texas. Both were of retired. One fellow was laid back and said very little. His fishing buddy was a little more opinionated and much more vociferous. As they were leaving I was wolfing down Deviled Ham with mustard on a cracker. I was so hungry I was spilling ham and cracker crumbs all over the grass. My chin had become a mustard roost between bites. From time to time the bandana would rescue the chin from its’ epicurean disgrace.

I was so hungry I didn’t worry one whit about my manners. The boat’s nose became my plate as I plowed through the can. The two fishermen began to pack up. I’m not sure if the manners had anything to do with their decision to leave. I didn’t mean to be rude but I just didn’t care. I was hungry. The talking guy had to say something as they left. I don’t know why maybe it was my Tilley hat but the guy says, “ We’ll see ya Willard”. I wondered what the hell was he talking about. The he says you know you look like Willard the weatherman, right? Now I have always liked Willard. I have even excused his working with what I consider communist propagandists and Clinton apologists which ever is worse. I took another bite, chewed it a minute, and realized I had just been insulted. They had their windows down and were beginning to drive off as I yelled. “Willard, my ass”! Now why I said that I don’t know. Normally I am good at trading insults with folks, not today. Apparently, my mind was a jello jumble or something even less likely to create intelligent thought.

The river was kicking my butt and I knew it. I needed to get control and stop feeling like the river was controlling me. Maybe with the lightening going away and the sun peaking out things were going to get better. We would see very soon. Maybe I would be able to settle into this river thing and it would all come together. We would see with experience. I might have made a mistake. I might have just thought I wanted outdoor adventure back in my life. Maybe in my old age I was too spoiled by civilization.

The sun warms things up and all is much better…..thank goodness.

Chapter 9

Rim Shoals to Buffalo City

Relief …….the worst is behind us now.

The worst was over. The sun was warming the air. The fog was not constant now but the cold river and hot air would continue to create fog all day. According to my little map it was another seven and a half miles down to Buffalo City and the junction with the famed Buffalo River. At my average rate of travel that day I should be there in a little over an hour.

The little mercury cranked up and looped me around toward the middle. The current caught the boat immediately and before I could get her turned around I was headed into a batch of willows. Normally they would have been well up on shore but with the water so high they were right in my way. We got her turned just in time to miss the trees. Maybe I caught a little luck.

Life looked much better without the rain, fog, lightening and thunder. The current was still there. So were the flooded banks. But overall things were becoming less concerning and the little motor more reassuring.

As the boat passed over Rim Shoals I thought, “Hey, I can do this”. It’s not near as bad as it was earlier. It’s boiling and bouncing a little but the little motor keeps me lined out. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was beginning to learn to read water again. I was starting to pick better lines in the shoals. Part of the reason was that I could see where I was going and I starting to concentrate on the water rather than other problems such as weather.

If I learned one thing that day it was the other things don’t matter if you don’t handle your boat properly. The river will kill you for sure. The weather can kill you but only by chance and mistake. Watch your river first and foremost. The water is always the boss.

I was making good time and the weather decided to send me another round of showers. This time it was only rain and fog without the lightning. The moisture came with a cold wave of air that stayed. I pulled on my rain jacket. Once again, I felt as if I was defying death by letting go of the tiller to change outerwear. I was reminded both my wife and my cousin had sternly warned me as to always wear a life jacket. I thought of the irony again.

By this time it was approaching two o’clock. I felt I was making excellent time although I wasn’t getting my GPS work done nor was I getting any of the great scenery into the camera. I had basically given up achieving any of my goals and was content to get to Buffalo City and the campsite alive. That was the effect of my first seven gate morning.

The ride didn’t call for much power from the little motor so I was running at about one fourth throttle. The river was moving but it didn’t seem as violent as before. I watched my map and read the water. The traffic on the river remained quiet. The fog gradually lifted and the rain went away once again. It was still a little chilly so I kept the jacket.

I knew from the map I was going over shoals areas and I could see turbulence but not near as much as the morning. I was a happy camper.

Before I knew it I was actually able to see some of the scenery. I even shot a couple of frames. In no time it seemed I reached Buffalo City Access and the magnificent Stair Bluff.

Next up……The Boomer meets the Cub Scouts.

Chapter 10

Buffalo City and the Cub Scouts

When I landed on the boat ramp there were two men and three or four boys milling about. They were part of a Cub Scout Troupe from Houma, Louisiana. One of the Dads was a really nice guy. He came over and remarked on my jacket and how cold it could get and how fast it could happen. About this time the sun was out it was turning hot, very fast. I couldn’t peel the jacket or pfd off fast enough. The Scouts were busy unpacking their canoes. The rental company was on the way to pick up the boats. It seemed they had come down the Buffalo. Each of the boys had earned a Merit Badge. The Louisiana man said there had been more kids but they had taken out upstream where the merit badge requirements had been met. Those dads’ needed to get home a day or two before this group. All had gone well with a couple of exceptions, according to the man from Houma.

They had only one mishap with the canoes. He chose the wrong side of an island and tipped over when the canoe got caught in trees and vines. They swam for the gear and only lost one bag. He said it scared him more than his son.

His other adventure on the five-day trek was the big rain from the night before. I mentioned I had been in Cotter during the late afternoon storm and he asked about the wind. I told him as far as I could remember it was fairly unremarkable because I couldn’t remember much about it like I could the volume of rain.

He said, where he was on the Buffalo the wind was so strong it tore his tent apart. He illustrated by pointing to a soggy tent fly hanging from a nearby tree. The boys then became animated and gathered round to tell me all about the ferocious storm they had survived. It must have made quite an impression on them because they all had a story to tell.

The Scout leader from Houma was interested in my GPS problem. By this time I had figured out which of the gillion storage bags I had the batteries. He was a GPS savy guy and I had come to the right place. I told him of my plan to put new batteries in now that it wasn’t raining and hope that would solve my problem. He said it might be something that needed to be reset. By taking the batteries out and replacing them it would be akin to rebooting a computer. Either way it wouldn’t hurt to replace the batteries. I was fairly sure it wasn’t a battery problem because I had three hours on the brand new set sent from the factory. I had charged them all night so I was certain we had a good charge.

We pulled the rechargables that came with the unit out and replaced them with cheap AA’s that I use in my on camera flash. Shazaam, it came right on and was ready to go to work. Apparently the factory batteries didn’t hold the charge as well as they should of or I just didn’t know what to expect out of them. Whatever the case three hours just was not going to cut the mustard.

Note: I have since requested and received a new set of batteries and charger from the factory gratis. I charged the new set and drove to Texarkana working the GPS on the way. The batteries went out again in less than three hours. I will use only cheap double AA batteries in the future. They last longer and are more dependable. DeLorme has a problem best I can figure.

The man and his merry little band of Cajun scouts were as happy to be at Buffalo City as I was. They were now seasoned little river rats and proud of it.
The canoe livery man showed up and the troupe got busy. Soon they were gone. Nice kids. Nice people. I like Cajuns. Always have.

I shot a few pictures of Stair Bluff then pushed off toward the nights’ campsite on Smith Island.